Somehow over time they had become the personification of little pleasures.

To Yamamoto, Gokudera was a double play with a sweeping tag at second followed by a short throw to first. He was that perfectly straight fastball that seemed to hang amidst the center of his strike zone just begging to raise his batting average. He was the smooth and satisfying sound of the ball connecting with the sweet spot of his bat. And that first toe that brushes home plate right before being greeted by his cheering teammates. Gokudera was the reason he played.

To Gokudera, Yamamoto was that sultry, fulfilling cigarette after a warm free meal. He was the feeling of metal rolling underneath his thumb and the sound of flint being struck. He was the flame that lapped against the end of his cigarette and the first few puffs that flitted then dispersed into the air. He took the edge off when he needed it most and left a taste in his mouth that he had grown to enjoy. As Sigmund Freud would assume, Yamamoto was his oral fixation.

Gokudera was that wonderful feeling of exhaustion after a game and the excitement of a perfectly prepared dinner. He was the first wafts of steam emitting from his dinner and the anticipation of devouring it. To Yamamoto, he was perfectly sliced sashimi over daikon and nearly anything wrapped in seaweed. He was wasabi and soy sauce, pickled ginger and strong tea. He was that feeling after a large meal and the relaxation of a long nap afterwards.

Yamamoto was the crackling sound of his cigarette connecting with a short fuse. He was the eagerness that came with the few seconds it took for the fuse to burn away. To Gokudera, he was the reverberation of an explosion from close-up and the sight of slowly dissipating smoke. He was a stroll through the twisted carnage and a leisurely kick at pieces of rubbish. He was the way ruined buildings looked teetering on just one main support beam and the knowledge that he created such chaos.

To Yamamoto, it didn't matter all that much that Gokudera loved to smoke. He didn't mind the frequency of each cigarette he lifted to his lips. He couldn't care less what Gokudera destroyed with his explosives or even the frightening closeness that they came to Yamamoto's own position most of the time. What did matter to him was the fact that each cigarette gave him an excuse to stare at his lips. His only singular care regarding Gokudera's love for explosions was whether Gokudera was flirting with disaster by standing so precariously close to his target zones. Otherwise, none of it matter to him.

To Gokudera, it wasn't an issue if Yamamoto devoted himself so completely to baseball. He didn't care if he related every aspect of life to some sports metaphor. He didn't mind the fact that sushi was the only thing Yamamoto truly loved to eat. What was an issue was whether he could make it to his games. His only concern with Yamamoto's dinner habits were if he'd let him steal a piece off his plate now and then and afterwards he wanted nothing more than to be able to lie next to him for a nap. It's all he could ever wish for.

To each other, they had become the trivial things that really didn't matter in the grand scheme of life but somehow, they had also ended up being the embodiment of what was necessary to make it through each day.